


light leaks

by attheborder



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Hand Jobs, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Masturbation, Shame Edward Little Power Hour, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:40:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28783587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/pseuds/attheborder
Summary: A man asleep was very different than a man awake. Hard work and discipline ensured that in the daytime Sergeant Tozer saw what Edward wanted him to see: the upright Lieutenant Little, altogether competent and respectable. But without conscious effort, with his body and soul slackened into unconsciousness, who knew what would be visible?for my Terror Bingo square: "Sharing a Bed"
Relationships: Edward Little/Solomon Tozer
Comments: 23
Kudos: 42
Collections: Lieutenant and Sergeant Gift Exchange, The Terror Bingo (2020)





	light leaks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tish/gifts).



> For Tish's prompt: "Tozer and Little on an exploratory expedition. Sharing a tent and huddling for warmth leads to other explorations."

At some point during the long and dark and cloistered winter, Edward recalled, he had wished so fervently for the return of the sun that it had seemed almost childish: the kind of infantile longing he had not felt since desiring his father to return from a lengthy sea-voyage, or for one of his newly married older sisters to come live once more in her old room next to his.

He was regretting that wish very much now: for at the height of Arctic summer the sun seemed like nothing so much as a curse meant just for him. Leading the sledge party across the barren ice fields to the north of the ships’ frozen position, his cap and Welsh wig were of little use against the glare. One or two men had cobbled together makeshift spectacles, but Edward had been too preoccupied with the party’s route and provisions to make time for such trifles, and now he was paying the price. His eyes watered; the tears froze, icing his lashes; and his whole head had begun to pulse in a deep painful ache.

Suddenly, relief: in the form of an interruption to the blinding blankness, directly ahead. The solid blue-gray form of a man, conveniently marked out with a great white X across his chest, as if Edward needed additional help identifying him, just in case his swaggering gait and wide silhouette didn’t give him away.

Edward raised his hand, and the sledge slowed to a halt behind him. Sergeant Tozer approached, gun over his shoulder, and nodded to Edward.

“Sir,” he said, “I spotted an Eski snow-house half a league west. Must be the girl, camped out. Worth altering course to take a look at, d’you think?”

After a moment of consideration, Edward agreed, and they drew up some yards from the site a half-hour later. It looked cozy, domestic, even: her sledge was parked outside like a stabled horse, and a fur draped over the entrance served as a door. A faint smell of oil-smoke and seal-blood carried over on the wind, which to Edward’s starved senses seemed at the moment more appealing than the most sumptuous Christmas roast.

So she was inside, then. A shiver ran up Edward’s neck. He could march up and demand she share her catch; he could feed his men with fresh meat, earn their respect and gratitude….

His eyes could hardly be trusted in their current state, but he thought when he glanced over to Tozer that the sergeant was looking a shade wistful as well, as if his thoughts had also drifted to food, and warmth, and rest. Then the Marine caught his gaze, and shook his head. _Don’t bother._

He was probably right—they had to keep moving. Accomplishment enough to mark the place on the chart, and inform the Captain about it when they returned. So they left the camp behind as they passed to the north-east, heading back up the broad channel that had frozen closed behind them over a year ago now. When Captain Crozier had told him he was to lead the northern party, Edward had understood implicitly that there was no expectation he find any leads; that it was a facade of confidence, as well as in part simply something for the men to do. Still, that hardly stopped Edward from yearning for the cheers he’d receive, the pride in his Captain’s eyes if he returned bearing news of leads to the north.

Manson was leading the party in songs as they hauled. Merchant shanties, meant for pulling up anchors—old war songs they’d learned from their fathers—music-hall choruses and broadsheet ballads. Some of the tunes were bawdier than was strictly proper in the presence of an officer, particularly the one being sung now. It seemed with all the leisure they’d been afforded over this eternal winter, the men had found time to work up a few new verses to “The Good Ship Venus,” spotlighting attributes of various members of the ship’s company:

_The carpenter was Honey  
He had no doxy money  
So he drilled a small hole in the wall  
And made a wooden cunny_

_The surgeon’s mate was Peddie  
_ _By Christ, the man was sweaty  
_ _It’s quite ideal, at all hours he’ll  
_ _Be nice and fuckin’ ready_

 _The sergeant was called Tozer  
_ _He’d make you lose composure_  
_So big, so strong, his prick so long  
_ _You can just ask Captain—_

“That’ll be enough of that!” shouted Tozer.

“Sorry, sir,” said Manson, as the rest fell silent.

“Thank you,” Edward said quietly. Tozer replied, “Yes, sir.”

The sun dipped coquettishly in the sky, flirting with the idea of setting as they hauled on, but demurely refraining. Edward wanted darkness; he wanted rest. He was exhausted, and the continued brightness around him seemed to be beyond his mere vision now, reaching his other senses: like harsh laughter in his ears, like holystones on his skin.

If John were here, he would have something to say about how the trials of such an exertion were tests of Edward’s fine character—about how providence would see him through, and he would be a better man for it after. But there was no fellow Lieutenant to shore up Edward’s strength; only the men behind him and the Marine who walked beside him, taking long strides in black boots over the white ground and seeming for all the world supernaturally untiring.

Eyes narrowed to slits as he forged ahead in the lead position, his wig pulled low over his brow, Edward was focused on nothing but the weight of the sledge-harness and the rhythm of his boots: right-left, right-left—

Someone had spoken aloud; something waving in the corner of his eye. When Edward turned, he saw that the sergeant was holding out his pair of goggles in one mittened hand.

“Were giving me blisters,” Tozer said, motioning to his cheek, where a reddened area indeed had begun to throb. “Might fit you better. Smaller head and all.”

“Oh. Thank you,” Edward said, for the second time in as many hours.

He could not easily recall Tozer showing such a kindness to any man, except perhaps his own Marines. Had Edward’s distress been that visible? In any case, with the goggles on, Edward found the light slightly more tolerable: the lenses were layers of netting, instead of tinted glass, but it was enough at least to stop the painful icing-over of his eyes.

They stopped for water and for breath; from the small front pocket on his slops jacket Edward took his pocket-watch to check the time. Christ—nearly half-six, they’d been hauling for eight hours. None of the men had complained. Edward wasn’t sure if that was a sign of their hardiness; their respect for him; or their naive eagerness to be the ones to return to their ships with news of a way out.

“One more mile, boys, how about it?” he said, with all the cheer he could muster.

“Sir,” said Tozer, “those clouds behind us, they’re coming on quick. We should set up camp now while we can.”

Again, he had reason to thank the sergeant—Tozer was right, a quick check of the barometer kept in the boat confirmed that the weather was about to take a turn.

And indeed, before they’d even finished getting the tents up, a great gray cloud-bank had rolled in from the south. Edward could have cried of gratitude as the sun fell behind it—the daylight was hardly diminished, but at least the harsh glare off the ice was softened greatly. They ate a hasty supper out of barely-warmed tins around a paltry fire that could barely hold its own against the wind and snow that had blown in with the clouds; and then inside, to hide themselves away from this persistent silver daylight, and attempt to find some rest.

As the sole commissioned officer of the party, Edward was to share a tent with the ranking Marine: authority (and guns) consolidated closely together. What had previously been a purely hypothetical matter of routine protocol and procedure was now about to become reality.

Try as he might he could not stop himself from watching out of the corner of his eye as Tozer removed his slops. The coarse striped fabric of his shirt; the straps of his leather braces; all kept very clean, a few tears neatly mended. Unlike Edward, who knew very well how his silhouette tended to diminish when he lacked his uniform jacket and greatcoat, Tozer seemed almost bigger, more substantial the fewer garments he had on. Perhaps were he to strip fully bare he might burst the bounds of their shelter altogether.

They lay down, a bit awkwardly, at least a foot between them. It was very cold. Edward was sure in the other tent just yards away, the men were curled up close together underneath their blankets, and were being rewarded with heat in abundance. It was only rational—the scientific, sensible method, in a situation such as theirs. So what was stopping him and Tozer from doing the same? Pressing themselves skin to skin, preventing the vital warmth from escaping? Well, plenty. Rank, for one—he, a commissioned lieutenant, and Tozer more or less a landsman, for all his gold lace and preening. And then, on Edward’s part at least, fear. A man asleep was very different than a man awake. Hard work and discipline ensured that in the daytime Sergeant Tozer saw what Edward wanted him to see: the upright Lieutenant Little, altogether competent and respectable. But without conscious effort, with his body and soul slackened into unconsciousness, who knew what would be visible? Best to keep his distance.

Soon the clouds passed without warning, and bright sunlight began to filter once more in through the flaps of the tent—ruthless, vicious sunlight. Edward lay there wide awake in the glow-pierced dimness and shivered. It had not seemed so bad when they were pulling the sledge, but now without the protection of exertion, the chill was seeping into his bones—and the light was tantalizing, providing illumination but no heat.

Tozer was clearly still just as awake as Edward: when Edward looked over, he could see Tozer’s breath rising into the air in quick frigid puffs.

“Are you cold? Perhaps it would help if we…” he began tentatively, shifting himself closer to Tozer; he couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence, but Tozer seemed thankfully to understand.

They consolidated their blankets, one on top of the other, and then huddled close together underneath, Edward keeping his hands conscientiously close to his body, so as not to brush them accidentally against Tozer’s side.

The choice immediately proved to be both highly intelligent and utterly disastrous. Even through his clothes, Tozer’s well-exercised form veritably radiated. Had he been a hot-water bottle or even an oven-warmed brick, something inanimate and solid, Edward could have drifted off ever so comfortably against him. But he was a living breathing man—Edward could not help but be painfully aware—and so awake, though warm, Edward stayed.

Minutes passed, or maybe an hour. The wind died down; and now it was replaced with something else. A rhythmic rustling, coming from very close by. Edward could sense gentle movement against him.

“Tozer, what in God’s name are you doing?”

A stillness; a shuffling; an abashed sort of grunt. Then a low rumble: “Thought you were asleep, sir. Sorry.”

Edward cleared his throat. “Perfectly alright. But please, try to get some rest now. We’ve a long few days ahead.”

He was speaking as much to himself as to Tozer, but it was already too late: his mind was flooding now with images of Tozer’s hand on his prick, helpfully recreating the scene Edward had just interrupted, and then taking it to its logical conclusion. Tozer’s yard must be as solid and well-proportioned as the rest of him… thick and reddened, being worked with firm and easy strokes. The darkened tip emerging from its roll of skin, drops of shining wetness gathering there…

When he at last gave in and turned again to look at Tozer, who with all his heart he believed had taken his advice to heart and fallen asleep, he saw to his surprise that Tozer was awake, and looking right back.

Suddenly he was grateful for the accursed midnight sun: for it allowed him to clearly see Tozer’s heavy-lidded eyes, and the subtle shift in their aspect—the knowing crinkle, the canny glint, which occasioned an exchange in unlikely understanding between them.

He could perceive that Tozer was waiting for him to say something, but he had no words at hand: in fact he was reluctant to ever speak again, lest, like in dreams, the whole occurrence be dashed into mist and blown away by the slightest of sounds.

Clearly emboldened by Edward’s silence, Tozer turned now totally on his side, so that his body faced Edward’s full-on. “Let’s have it out, then,” he said. “What is it you want, sir?”

Edward would not allow his mutinous mouth to make even so much as a whisper. If he let it, it might issue a denial or a reprimand; he craved whatever was coming too much to permit himself to get in his own way. He satisfied himself instead with a minute nod.

At this, Tozer smirked. Edward wished he wouldn’t; it felt horribly mocking. His insides twisted up at the sight, and his prick throbbed in time with the blood in his ears.

“Dealer’s choice, then? Right.”

Keeping the blankets tight around them, Tozer levered himself up and over, trapping one of Edward’s legs between his thighs, bringing almost his full weight to bear on Edward’s body.

Edward had expected—well. He didn’t know what he’d expected. Something perfunctory and swift. Something efficient; brutal, even. Something well within the range of these transactions as he’d known them. If Tozer planned to bugger him it would happen without preamble, surely—he would turn Edward over, tug his own flies down and fuck Edward just like that.

But now he was—Christ, he was leaning down, nosing aside the fabric of Edward’s collar, and starting to suck a deep bruise into the soft skin there. Edward bit down on his tongue but the shadow of a moan escaped him anyway.

How long had Tozer been waiting to get his hands on him? How many nights had Tozer imagined doing this, now: rutting slowly against Edward’s upper leg, as he reached into Edward’s smallclothes and brought out his stiff prick, beginning to pull at it, treacherously slowly? His attention was unseemly; it might have been flattering, were Edward not so ashamed.

He wanted Tozer to say something, anything—but the sergeant seemed to have now descended into a sort of prehistoric fury, a wordless frenzy of avarice with Edward’s body as its only object. He was heavy atop him, his movement primal—as if he had become the very beast that he carried his rifle to protect against, Edward thought, and as if Edward was offering himself up to it—well, that may have been an exaggeration, but it had been so very long since Edward had been touched, and everything about the moment seem magnified, immense and staggering. He could very well spend right this instant, if Tozer kept at it like this.

“Tozer, I—”

A low warning growl from Tozer—then there were two wide fingers at his lips, pressing their way past his teeth, and he took them greedily, saving graces to choke him, stop his tongue from loosing whatever unwise sentence he had been about to utter. He tasted salt and grease and wool, the remnants of supper, gunpowder and dirt, savoring the filth of it as he sucked.

His mouth was empty again far too soon; the blankets slid down Tozer’s back as he went up onto his knees, tugging Edward’s legs towards him. The light leaking in from above slashed his shirt twice diagonally down the front, marking him out with another white X, a holy echo of his Marine uniform. As if a mark on a treasure map: _yes, him, this one._

Edward could not let himself think on it: luckily it was not hard to close his eyes and focus on the purely physical sensation, the growing heat between them and the tide of pleasure at his center; the sudden searing fullness of Tozer plunging one spit-slick finger past Edward’s rim, and then another, and beginning to fuck him with them, deep bruising strokes, each one a wrench through him entire.

It didn’t seem fair that Tozer could now have an industrious hand on Edward’s prick and another at his hole, and both of Edward’s hands all the while scrabbling uselessly on the bedroll. He reached up towards where he could see the outline of Tozer’s straining prick at his half-undone flies, and laid his palm against it, providing what he could—selfishness disguised, for in reality he just wanted to feel it, know its shape intimately.

Ironic: Edward’s lust had always had a steady foundation in the unobtainable. Nothing stoked his desires so much as a womanizer: the dashing, sporting sort who were masculinity incarnate, and thus least likely to stoop to the lowness of buggery. The paradox had always held Edward secure in its clutches, ensuring that none of the men he wished most to touch him ever would, and thus he was safe from descending into sin.

And Sergeant Tozer had been the most recent man to fall comfortably into that category—yet here he was, grinding down against Edward’s hand, about to bring Edward off in a most spectacular fashion.

Did that mean that after this, Edward would no longer long for him? The thought terrified. He wanted to bury his face between Tozer’s thighs and suck him dry—he wanted to be held close— he wanted to fuck Tozer, and be fucked by him, and what’s more, he _wanted_ to want it. To lose this ember of want which, even as it burned him, had kept him from freezing over entirely these last few months—he could not countenance it.

It was as he clung ever tighter to his own desire that Tozer pulled his fingers from Edward with a wet, filthy noise, and ran them lightly up the skin behind his tightening stones. All at once the orchestra in Edward's head reached its crescendo: with one last grasp from Tozer he was there, arching up and spilling with a mortifyingly effeminate little cry.

Spread eagle and panting, warm and sticky and sleepy, he watched as Tozer, looking back down at him with a blank and easy gaze that could have meant anything, took out his prick and began to finish in full view what he’d started hidden under the covers.

Edward watched, entranced—relieved too, for Tozer’s yard was as handsome to see as it was to touch, and he still wanted it as much as he ever had, no cessation of the heat in him at the sight, for now—and then he blinked, brow furrowing, realizing: Tozer did not plan to let Edward put his mouth on him; he did not plan to fuck him.

“No, let me—”

But it was too late, and Tozer had spent over his own hand, over the fingers that just a moment before had been slick with Edward’s own spit and brushing against the deepest place inside him. He let out a long low sigh; no smile, but satisfied and perhaps even proud all the same.

Edward clambered unsteadily onto his knees in order to button his trousers, shove his shirttails back down into them, and Tozer rocked back into an easy crouch, his arms slung out in front. He said something, or maybe it was just another of his wretched noises.

“Pardon?”

“No. Just thinking. The name suits, doesn’t it,” Tozer said.

“I’m sorry?” He thought for a moment Tozer was talking about his Christian name, wondered what on Earth “Edward” had to do with anything, before realizing Tozer likely didn’t even know it—it wasn’t as if he had access to the muster book.

“Lieutenant _Little,”_ Tozer said, and reached out to tap Edward’s arse. Christ, he was _teasing_ him. Edward’s spent prick stirred painfully underneath its layers.

“That’s enough,” Edward said. The cold had begun to reassert itself: gooseflesh pricked on the back of his neck and his wrists. He took his blanket back, and settled onto his bedroll, vast cold inches away from where Tozer now bedded down. “Good night, Sergeant.”

“Hm. Yes, sir.”

Three more nights out on the ice, at least, until they were due back. Edward still wanted more of Tozer, and wondered how much he would allow himself to get.

***


End file.
